


Unintended Consequences

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Conspiracy, Guilt, M/M, Mild Language, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, POV John Watson, Psychopaths In Love, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Secrets, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Spy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-06-20 18:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15540396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: The saga of BAMF John and spy Sherlock continues in this sequel toCould Be Dangerous. Following along with BBC Sherlock canon of S1Ep2, the men face threats from all sides as well as and their own evolving feelings for each other as they solve the case of The Blind Banker.Where this begins makes more sense if you at least readChapter 12of Could Be Dangerous.





	1. No Apologies

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Could Be Dangerous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617191) by [Breath4Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul). 



> Where this begins makes more sense if you at least read [**Chapter 12**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617191/chapters/34813619) of Could Be Dangerous.

I can't apologise.  
I don't try.  
How does one go about apologising for something like that?

_So sorry about getting carried away and **actually** fucking you when we were only supposed to be faking some frottage._

_Please pardon me being so obviously gone on you from the first moment. I know it is terribly inconvenient that this is certain to get us both killed._

They don't make a Hallmark card for that, do they?  
_No._

Some people might say that it's not about finding the right words but rather it's the _sentiment_ of apologising that counts, but they'd be _idiots._ After all, Sherlock made it clear from the beginning that he abhors sentiment. 

Inflicting an apology on him could only be an exercise in self-indulgence - an attempt at unburdening my own well-deserved guilt. 

And, even if I could find the right words, it's not as if I could say them aloud since we are under constant surveillance by an army of enemies itching for any sign of significant emotional investment in each other. 

It's reasonable to assume that any apology would be a damp squib. 

So, things are a bit… _tense._  
By _things,_ I mean _me_ \- I'm tense.  
Sherlock seems _fine._  
Impervious.  
Completely unaffected.  
He's so bloody unmoved that I want to punch that placid, bored look right off of his gorgeous face.

No... not _punch_... what I really want to do is to grab him by the hair, jerk his head back, and suck on that place on his neck that made his breath hitch.

That'd do me.

But that's not really an option either.

Still, I can't stop thinking about it - thinking about _him_ \- and having to watch him continue on, unruffled and aloof, finds me stewing in a quiet, bitter fury.

Whatever Sherlock may claim about bitterness being _‘a paralytic,’_ I find my own to be rather productive. Within a few days of being (forcibly) moved into 221B, I've unpacked all my things, cleaned and organised my room, binned all the body parts in the crisper, scoured the entire kitchen with bleach and I can almost see myself in the shine I've put on the bathroom tiles. 

It feels good to watch the mess disappear into some order.  
If only life could be so easily tidied.

And if it so happens that my cleaning up of the mess comes as an inconvenience or irritation to Sherlock, all the better. Serves the prick right for being unable to muster anything more than indifference to my existence and only responding in vaguely disinterested hums or blunt, monosyllabic retorts to any of my efforts to engage him.

Just as I am beginning to think I might have to learn how to fester in my stoic misery, it all goes to hell. Like a slow motion train wreck, I watch life jump the tracks. And I'm the first to admit that I welcome that carnage as an old friend; a reprieve from too much time to think.

The attacks are subtle at first. So much so, I'm not sure if it is an attack at all or just a coincidental series of unfortunate events. 

There's some mix up with my army pension check. No one seems to know why it never made it to my account and they can find no trace of it. It's a minor annoyance that I quickly move to address. I have contingencies. I know I've enough saved back to carry me a little while whilst they track it down. 

However, a day later my bank account suffers a ‘breach’ and the balance disappears without a trace.

 _Only mine,_ mind you. 

Got my full attention now. 

Financial sabotage seems likely; a suspicion confirmed by a rather embarrassing row with the chip and pin machine at the supermarket when I attempt to restock the flat with things _actually edible_ and find that my credit card is suddenly 'not authorised.’

It's not the machine's fault, but none of the humans I'd very much like to pummel were near at hand.

I trudge back to Baker Street, empty handed and vaguely enraged with the world. 

I'm shit at technology, but I'm already thinking over what resources I might be able to muster to find the bastards that did this and make them regret tampering with my funds.

I am thinking of army mate, RJ, who has a brother-in-law that does forensic accounting. I am thinking that he owes me a favor for that thing in Kabul, when my mind immediately snaps back to attention the moment I step in the flat.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter at the bottom of the stairs, already getting that faint sense of _wrongness_ about things.

There's a pressure to the air of a room after a fight has happened within it. I can't say what it is exactly; some shift in the energy so subtle it can only be felt on the subconscious level; like the charged atmosphere after a thunderstorm. It makes me bristle. 

I jog up the stairs, step through the sitting room door and quickly glance around, seeking to identify the threat. There are subtle signs of a struggle; furniture shifted a bit, scuff marks on the floor boards I had put a lot of effort into cleaning, and a gouge of wood missing from the door frame (that I'm certain wasn't there before) all point to a rather violent row having occurred in my absence.

“You took your time,” Sherlock interrupts my assessment of the room almost immediately. I glance up at him, surprised and confused. That he is actually speaking, rather than just ignoring me is probably the most telling sign that he is hoping to distract me from looking too closely at the room.

He is seated in his chair, prim and pristine in his fine suit, and almost in the exact same position I left him in only an hour earlier. However, instead of meditatively steepling his hands beneath his chin, he is now holding a book. He doesn't return my gaze, pretending to consider the book (as if he is capable of something so mundane as calmly passing the time by reading). 

“Yeah, I didn’t get the shopping,” I state, knowing that this is such a painfully obvious fact (given that my arms are empty) that it should earn me a glare. However, actual eye contact is welcomed at the moment.

He does look up then, but at the door, as if expecting someone more important to be behind me. After a few seconds his eyes at last shift to me. His expression is tinged with mild surprise and confusion.

“What? Why not?” 

“Because I had a row in the shop with a chip-and-PIN machine,” I say more tetchily than perhaps warranted. 

I can almost feel the energy thrumming off him from my position by the door; a sort of quiet, smug satisfaction at having had a good physical row. I shift uneasily, my own unresolved tension crawling like fire ants beneath my skin. I could really use a physical fight about now. I am itching for it, really. I'm quite tired of this shadow boxing of digital terrorists and puttering around while feeling invisible in my own flat.

“You had a row with a machine?” He lowers the book, at last giving me his full attention. His lips turn up at the corners, like he is trying to hold in the faintest amusement. It is so slight, yet as close to a smile as I've seen since that first night. I can almost believe it is genuine.

“Sort of,” I say, slower and I know my expression has turned a bit harder. I'm unsure how much he knows about my sudden financial strife and I'm not sure how much he cares to know. “It sat there and I shouted abuse.” 

_’Perfect metaphor for my life these days,’_ I think dryly. I look him over for a half moment, weighing my options before I lift my chin, settling into quiet defiance. 

“Have you got cash?” Old habits die hard and, if he is going to sit there and pretend he hasn't been pummeling someone just moments before I walked in, I'm hardly going to be the first to tip my hand by sharing the details of how they've decided to come after me.

“Take my card.” Sherlock nods towards the kitchen where his wallet is lying on the table. His expression is softer than I've seen it since _before._ It throws me off balance, making an odd, achy sensation expand in my chest as I meet his gaze. Like something is missing that was there before and I'm not sure how to recover it because I'm not even sure what it was.

I turn briskly and march towards the kitchen. I resolutely remind myself that this mission isn't mine to understand. I'm just to keep my head down and do my part. He obviously can handle himself and I'm to take care of myself.

I nearly make it to the kitchen door when I note that the dining set has been shifted several centimeters towards the sink and half the contents on the table have been pushed to the wall as if someone had been thrown onto the surface. My body whirls around on him before my brain has a chance to intervene, anger flaring hot and bright as I glare at his mockingly casual expression.

“You could always go yourself, you know. You’ve been sitting there all morning. You’ve not even moved since I left,” I hiss in a swell of bitter fury. If he's going to lie, I'm not going to make it easy on him. He can do it outright or.... he can tell me the truth and we can start working together.

Sherlock says nothing. Instead, he stares blankly at me, unmoved by my unspoken plea for solidarity in the face of _whatever this is_ and feigns nonchalance as he turns his eyes back to the book and flips a page. 

His silence speaks volumes.

Discouraged, I turn and pick up the wallet from the table and rummage through it for a suitable payment card. My mind drifts to when he had confessed to stealing Mycroft's card. I am reminded of that awkward visit we received this morning and, since we are suddenly back on speaking terms, I decide to press my luck. 

“What happened about that case you were offered – the Jaria Diamond?”

This morning, when I shuffled down the stairs, it was only to stumble upon the odd sight of Mycroft and Sherlock silently glaring at each other in the sitting room. Still as statues, the two brothers were almost a perfect mirror of each other’s positions and posture as they sat facing each other before the unlit fire. There was a distinct chill in the air between them. 

No one spoke or even looked my way as I mumbled a morning greeting. It was more for show than anything. I knew Sherlock would ignore me but hadn't quite figured out Mycroft's role or level of threat in Sherlock's larger mission. Hiding the immense fissures between Sherlock and I seemed like the safest approach. Sherlock, apparently, didn't care to feign civility though.

I wasn't overly eager to spend time in their collective presence. So, I left them to their staring contest and went to the loo to conduct my morning routine. I found they were still wordlessly glaring at each other when I emerged a good 45 minutes later; showered, shaved and dressed for the day. 

When I started making tea and a small fry up, Mycroft rose to his feet and announced, with a certain edge of menace, that he expected Sherlock to take a look at the case. He tried to hand a folder to Sherlock. When it was ignored, he noted, in an eerily cold voice, that the Jaria Diamond was very valuable to very important people and it was vital that it be recovered. He then placed the folder on the table of the sitting room, said a curt goodbye to me, and left. 

Sherlock didn’t move or give his departing brother so much as a glance. He had remained frozen in his chair the rest of the morning, darkly glaring at nothing in particular until the moment I left too. 

“Not interested,” Sherlock answers in a tone that is quick and light. He slams the book shut with a loud snap as punctuation to his assertion. “I sent them a message,” he says firmly.

I wonder at the odd tone of his voice and his cryptic words as I bend over to look more closely at a new long, narrow gouge on the top of the kitchen table. It is a hard wood, so the cut was clearly made by a very sharp blade applying a lot of pressure. I run my finger along the cut and mutter to myself a quiet curse as I look across at him. 

Sherlock just shakes his head back and forth, putting on a look of innocence. I glance down and see the glint of metal of a rather menacing sword pushed back under the chair he is sitting in. He has his foot atop it in an effort to hide it from me. 

He really _does_ think I'm a complete idiot. 

I make a scoffing sound that I hope conveys my combined frustration and contempt over his efforts to keep me in the dark. I turn away before I do or say something (else) stupid.

 _’You know what? Fuck him,’_ I think in disgust as I stomp down the stairs and out the front door. I slam it harder than necessary and march down the street in the direction of Tesco.

 _‘That's the problem, Watson,’_ a small voice restorts from a dark corner of my mind, _'You already did.’_

I stop and turn to look back at the window of 221B. I can just barely make out a tall, curly-haired silhouette that is pale as a ghost against the dark of the room. However, I can't make out Sherlock's expression. It's impossible to tell for sure if he is watching me now. Yet, I feel his gaze burning into me, pinning me to the spot. It makes my chest squeeze tight in ways I can't understand. 

Flashes of memory of him steal my breath as they rattle through me, like the Tube through the station; swirling everything inside me about. Him at the foot of my bed. Him leaning over my bare chest to study my scars. His look of fierce determination and the moon-gilded glint of the knife as he whispered his ultimatum in the dark. 

The truth hits me once again, like a stray bit if rubbish whipped away only to be smacked back into my face and cling there. As furious as I want to be at him, I've no one but myself to blame. I brought this upon us. He'd said they'd attack if they thought we were getting close enough to each other for them to effectively use me as leverage and now they are attacking.  
Attacking me financially.   
Attacking him physically.   
I am supposed to be buying him time but instead I'm bringing on the End Game that much quicker. If I had just kept my feelings out of it during the ruse of us having sex, they'd still be biding their time. 

It's all my fault and he is clearly trying to salvage the mission by putting some distance between us… or maybe he is punishing me by cutting me out… maybe, _both._

Which, honestly, is no less than what I deserve. 

_We fuck **or** we die. _  
_We fuck, we die._  
_Same difference._  
_I fucked him. Now we're both screwed._

As I watch, the figure transforms and a violin is lifted and merges with his silhouette; pressed between his chin and shoulder. Heavy notes leaden with sadness, passion and longing sink down to the street, giving the ordinary world a magical quality. People walking by look up and around, trying to catch sight of the source of that siren call. The figure turns and glides away, the notes retreating with it.

I let out a breath and turn away as well, fingering the raised letters of the name Sherlock Holmes imprinted on the card in my pocket.


	2. Pendulum Swing

I flirt with the checkout girl. 

I don't set out to... but it happens.

I decide that interacting with a normal human being is necessary for my sanity and so I slide into the que of a young woman with long, straight, strawberry hair and an attractive smattering of freckles over her cheeks and nose. She seems sweet and kind and nothing like a certain brooding, silver-eyed, dark-haired flatmate.

When she bats her blue eyes at me and smiles, it feels natural to smile back. We talk lightly and I crack a self-deprecating joke about my choice of biscuits that she is far too generous in giggling over.

“Come back soon,” she says in a suggestive tone as I step away with my arms laden down with bags. She pushes her hair behind her ear, looks up at me and bites her bottom lip. 

“Um… thanks.” I pause, looking her over and considering if I should take the open invitation in her body language. She's obviously interested and it would be easy to lean in and charm a date or, at the very least, a number out of her.

But something stops me.

My mind flies back to Sherlock standing alone in the window of our flat and those hauntingly beautiful notes pouring down over me. 

Though I know that I’ll be lucky if he's still showing the barest of interest in my existence by speaking to me when I get back, and I’ve every indication he'd prefer me to pursue someone else (if for no other reason than to sow doubt and show a lack of any deep commitment between us) this still feels like… well… like _cheating_ on him. It's ridiculous - but true.

“Ah, thanks. I'm sure I will be.” I say with a small smile, lifting up the bags hanging from my arms and ducking my head in an awkward gesture of thanks. Her titter of laughter trails after me as I turn to leave. 

Something cold and hard, like dread, settles into my stomach.

All the way back to the flat I mentally kick myself for letting an opportunity drop like that. I try to come up with a good excuse for it, but I can't. I consider turning around and going back no less than three times. 

"Damn it, Sherlock," I mutter bitterly. I think of the small smile and the soft look he gave me, even as he tried to hide from me whatever fight he had just endured because of me. It's all so confusing. It shouldn't be possible for a man that seems so harsh and uncaring to make a violin weep and sigh like that. For him to be so cold one moment and so vulnerable and human the next. 

Even with my hand on the doorknob of 221 and the plastic bags digging into my palms and forearms with their weight, I hesitate for a few seconds, thinking it could even be charming for me to pop back in and ask her for her information. She seemed like the type of girl to be charmed by that sort of thing.

Instead, I throw open the door and trudge up the stairs, fully expecting Sherlock to be seated in his chair, off in his Mind Palace and refusing to speak to me once again.

“Don’t worry about me. I can manage,” I quip, sighing heavily as I round the corner into the kitchen. He has moved, at least. He is now seated at the table in the sitting room with his hands folded in front of his mouth as he looks over them at a laptop screen. However, my frustration grows thorny spikes and digs in as I note that he's not even bothering to look at me. I feel even more furious with myself for failing to ask the Tesco girl out.

I dump the groceries onto the table, feeling too irritated to deal with putting them away, which will likely require more cleaning - who knows what lurks in those cupboards.

I turn back towards the sitting room and take in what Sherlock is doing. It is clear that he is engrossed in reading from the screen. I stop and frown when I realise which computer he is using. It looks to be _my_ computer.

“Is that my computer?”

He starts to type and, for a few tense seconds, I think he might not answer. Then he replies flatly, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, “Of course.”

“What?!” I take a step forward thinking that I must have misheard. Sherlock continues typing away _on my computer,_ keys clacking rapidly and seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet room. 

“Mine was in the bedroom,” he says matter-of-factly. He is still not looking at me.

“You couldn’t be bothered to get up?” It strikes me, at the same moment that I throw this accusation at him, that he did, in fact, get up. He _must have._ He got all the way up to _my room,_ where I’d left my laptop on my bedside table. 

I freeze, stunned speechless for a few seconds by the blatant violation of privacy. He'd been in _my room_ ; in _my things._ I could get whiplash from his drastic mood reversals. He has gone from pursuing me, to pretending like I don't exist, to purposely invading my most intimate places and possessions in the blink of an eye... and he hasn't an ounce of shame or remorse about it. 

His fingers continue to dance over my keyboard as my cheeks burn. “It’s password protected,” I growl, clenching my fists. That's pretty much as clear a sign as you can give that you don't want other people mucking about with your stuff.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says, still typing. “Took me less than a minute to guess yours.” He glances up at me for the first time. “Not exactly Fort Knox.” 

I breathe out, gutted by the pointed comment. I know the reference to the supposedly impenatrable bank is a criticism of how I've allowed my finances to get hacked. He's obviously taken the liberty of looking over my fruitless e-mails with the staff of the bank and he's mocking my lack of ability to protect myself. I purse my lips on a sharp insult that I want to let loose. There's something in the blandness of his expression that makes me look more closely at his face. 

No, he's not mocking me. He's pointing it out; exposing it. He's refusing to let me hide it. I'd liked that about him at first - the way he'd seen through me and dragged everything out into the light immediately. Not for judgement, but to show there could be no false boundaries or illusions between us. I had found that part of him refreshing at that first meeting. Not so much now that he's still keeping all his secrets from me.

“Right, thank you.” I march over and snap the lid of my computer shut. I have a surge of satisfaction in seeing Sherlock jerk his fingers back out of the way just in time. His expression flickers surprise as I stomp away. 

I take the laptop across the room with me and rest it on the floor as I sink into my armchair. 

Sherlock is clasping his hands into a steepled position in front of his mouth again. He is staring blankly across the room, brow sightly furrowed in thought, as if he had always intended to just sit and have a think. 

I pick up a small pile of letters from the table beside my chair for something to do. I'm irritated and confused by his change in strategy. I really wish I could be as good at ignoring him as he obviously is at ignoring me.

“Oh,” I groan as I look over a bill for my mobile that warns of disconnect if I don't pay in 3 days. Another, for the last of my electric in my old flat, has final notice stamped on the top in red. I flip through the rest and find they all need urgent paying. 

This is bad. Even if I can get ahold of RJ and arrange for his brother-in-law to look into recovering my money, that will take time - time I don't have. I shake my head, trying to come up with a solution.

“Need to get a job,” I mutter, running a hand over my brow. 

“Oh, dull,” Sherlock hisses. This surprises me. I would think he'd approve of me finding employment for many reasons, the least being that it would get me out of his hair. 

I carefully place the letters back on the table and stare at him for a moment. Something definitely seems to have changed since this morning and I can't pin down what he's aiming at with this shift in behaviour. He is like a pendulum, swinging from one extreme to the other without warning. Normally, I'd wait it out - patiently wait to see which way the situation is going before responding, but, I haven't time.

I glance over at the bills again, considering what I should do. He's speaking to me now - somewhat. He also knows about the issue with my finances. I decide that if he is breaching the topic because he wants me to ask for help I need to know that he's going to help me _now_ because, if he's not, I'm going to have to move on to developing another solution quickly.

I awkwardly shift forward in my seat, placing my elbows on my knees.

“Listen, um,” I say softly, running my eyes over his expensive suit. “If you’d be able to lend me some…”

I stop, realising he is staring off into space, seeming not to hear me. 

“Sherlock, are you listening?” Shit - is he back to ignoring me? 

For a moment he says nothing and I think I really might have to tackle him and hit him. Exposing my needs like this, then shuting me out to deal with it on my own, is a whole new level of cruelty.

I clench my jaw and am just about to push myself up to walk away when he sucks in a deep breath and looks around, eyes never quite finding me.

“I need to go to the bank,” he declares getting to his feet. He sweeps out of the room and towards the stairs, taking his coat from the hook on the door as he goes. He doesn't give so much as a backwards glance to confirm I am following.

I've not been invited but I am up on my feet chasing after him before I have a chance to stop myself. I can only hope that this is his way of saying he means to help me after all.


	3. Follow

“What the hell am I doing here?” I whisper to Sherlock and my voice seems far too loud bouncing around the sleek polished marble and too-bright decor of Shad Sanderson Bank. 

Sherlock lifts his chin, looking up and around at our extravagant surroundings in that completely absorbed way he has of observing everything; somewhere between a scientist picking apart all the variables and a predator planning the best means of attack. 

My eyes trace his features as I try to patiently wait for those piercing eyes to turn back on me. He hasn’t so much as looked at me since back at the flat when he declared the need to go to the bank. As we make our way further into the strictly secured establishment I am feeling more and more out of place. His perfect posture and his fine, expensive clothes make him appear well suited for a place like this. I, on the other hand, feel like a pauper in the royal palace. In fact, I'm beginning to think he didn't mean for me to follow him here at all.

Yet, it seems too late to turn back now. I narrow my eyes on the side of his face and wait two beats... three... then my irritation tips over into anger.

“Sherlock!” My voice is hushed but with that harsh, commanding edge from my army days. I've stepped forward and squared my body to him to make it clear that that was _not_ a rhetorical question; I expect an answer.

That one word, spoken in such an authoritative tone, lands like a small explosion in the quiet space. I am aware of two sets of eyes snapping to me. 

The secretary, almost hidden behind the imposing desk in front of us, is gazing up at me with interest. She's apparently been momentarily distracted from the task she’d been occupied with since we'd arrived of typing rapidly and listening to whomever is on the other end of the phone. 

Additionally, Sherlock is (finally) looking at me as well. His gaze is hard; his brow is furrowed, his lips are parted and his expression, like in the car park of Roland Kerr College when he realised I'd shot the cabbie, is oscillating between astonishment, confusion and interest. It's almost like he is seeing the _real_ me for the first time all over again.

I clear my throat, embarrassed and disappointed in myself for the slip back into military mode. I clench and release my left hand, letting go of the anger, and then take a small step towards Sherlock. 

“We are going to _have to_ communicate,” I say low and slow, as I look up at him from under my brow. “What's going on?”

His expression fluctuates subtly as his eyes sweep up and down my frame. His mouth has fixed into a tight line and all that intense power of observation is begrudgingly focused on me now. Instead of discomfort, I feel relief. I relax and add a bit of a smile.

“Even you can’t get waved past that amount of security with only your name and your charm.” It's meant to be a bit of a teasing jab at his general lack of niceties and it lands as well as can be expected. In response, Sherlock’s lips twitch up into a slight smirk. 

“Good, you follow.” His gaze shifts to somewhere over my right shoulder.

“Follow?” 

“The security; several levels, varied methods, operated independently. Not a simple task to overcome.” He fixes his eyes on me again, as if challenging me to put the pieces together. I weigh the scant information.

“Right… _So_ … someone here is expecting you about something to do with the security?” I have naturally settled into a military parade rest, clasping my hands at the small of my back. I thrust my lips forward, narrowing my eyes and glancing around. Now that my training has been called upon, I let myself review all the things I'd naturally taken note of out of habit on the way in: _Limited exits are all secured. Video cameras. Metal detector. Swipe card. Three armed guards by main entrance. Two plain clothes security officers milling about in disguise among the patrons on first floor. It's excessive._

My gaze comes back to him once I've formed a reasonable conclusion. “A case, then. Breach of security?” I consider what I might be doing here with him and lower my voice to a murmur, “A murder?”

Sherlock's eyes darken and he opens his mouth as if to speak to me but instead he turns to the secretary who has just placed the phone back on the receiver and is now directing her full attention at us. 

“Sherlock Holmes for Sebastian Wilkes,” Sherlock snaps at the same moment she begins to greet us. 

“Good-” She blinks, face losing all pretense of pleasantness. “Of course,” she says as she briskly switches gears in a way that tells me she's dealt with her fair share of boorish and demanding patrons. She picks up the phone. 

“Thank you,” I add, plastering on a kind smile, feeling as though I should compensate for Sherlock's rudeness. She tips her head in a nod and a little smile curls up the corner of her mouth.

“And you, sir?” 

“Sorry, what?” 

Surprisingly, her gaze sweeps casually up and down my body and the lush, dark crimson of her lips grows into a deeper smile, flashing the white of the teeth below as her stare settles back on my face. 

“Your name, _sir?_ ” There is definitely something coy in the way she says 'sir.’

“Oh… um… Watson. Dr. John Watson.”

She continues to hold my gaze as she punches in the extension and relays our arrival to Mr. Wilkes on the other end of the line. 

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to see you, Sir.” She is stroking a finger over the side of her neck now while eyeing me in a clearly flirtatious way. That same tempting shade of crimson of her lips is on her nails and is a very appealing contrast against the milk chocolate brown of her skin. I feel my own smile warming, becoming less forced politeness and more acknowledgement of potential interest. 

She really has quite lovely, soft, brown eyes which she keeps lowering demurely. Her glossy black curls are pulled back into a tight bun but I can almost imagine how beautiful she would look if she let it down. Maybe with those curls fanned out on a pillow-

“Phone.” 

I jump. Sherlock has moved into the space and now looms over me. His voice is hard and full of cold demand and he is glaring down at me with his hand already out in the scant space between us. I reach for my phone instinctively before I stop myself.

“Wait. What’s wrong with yours?” My hand is curled around my phone in my coat pocket. I take a half step back but he follows with his hand still out insistently.

“Nothing.” 

“Why do you need mine, then?” 

He huffs, as if terribly put out about my lack of cooperation.

“You asked why we are here.”

“Right.”

He thrusts his hand forward, stopping just short of jamming his fingertips into my sternum. He glares at me, apparently not intending to say anything more. After a few long moments of silent standoff, trying to read his intentions and failing, I slowly draw my phone out of my pocket. I am about to place it in his hand when we are interrupted by the secretary.

“Mr. Wilkes will see you now.” She rises to her feet and makes a gesture of invitation. “If you’ll follow me.” She starts off in the direction of Mr. Wilkes’ office and then I am completely distracted from the confrontation with Sherlock because she is wearing crimson stiletto heels and clearly putting a sway in her hips, naturally drawing eyes to her shapely legs and very flattering, tight, pencil skirt. 

Sherlock lets out a harsh, vaguely disgusted breath through his nose, and pushes past me to stride after her. I can't decide if I am imagining it or if he intentionally keeps his gangly form and large, fluttery coat positioned between me and the flirtatious secretary just to obstruct my view. 

She leads us through a busy floor of cubicles. It is buzzing with activity, bright and loud, there are large tv screens mounted everywhere streaming numbers, and voices are fighting for dominance over the distracting trill of phones going off all around. Something about it is like a battleground, making my nerves begin to buzz and my blood hum with adrenaline. 

My hands are clasped behind my back and I'm glancing around when a man emerges from a nearby office to intercept us. He is as tall as Sherlock, with dark hair, slicked to the side and an expensive suit. He is a bit heavier built with a bulldog jaw, bloodshot, deep-set eyes, overhanging brows, and a seemingly almost permanent large, mischievous grin. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He strides forward to meet Sherlock confidently, eyes roving over him from head to toe and hand already extended to shake. He is smiling, large and warm. Yet, there's something unpleasant I can't put my finger on within his bright expression. 

“Sebastian.”

He grips Sherlock's hand and whilst Sherlock tries to keep his arm stiff, the man pushes forward and leans into Sherlock's space encasing the seized hand in both of his own.

“Howdy, buddy. How long’s it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?” His hand moves up to grip Sherlock's bicep and I think I see his thick fingers curl into the fabric of Sherlock’s coat to squeeze with a kind of quiet possessiveness. My stomach twinges with the gut feeling that there is something very wrong beneath this interaction. I step forward, all my muscles coiled and at the ready to intervene. 

He starts to turn and pull Sherlock along to his office when his eyes finally land on me. He seems surprised to find anyone else here. His eyes shift back to Sherlock, eyebrows raised as if asking for explanation.

“This is my…” Sherlock hesitates for a half second, apparently considering what term to assign to me “ _Friend,_ John Watson.”

“Friend?” Wilkes’ eyes widen slightly and he stares at me with an expression mixed between doubtfulness and undisguised curiosity.

I step forward again and my eyes can't help but flick to Wilkes’ dumb, thick fingers curled around Sherlock’s arm. Some part of me knows I’m being ridiculous; overreacting. Afterall, Sherlock can take care of himself when it comes to some slimy businessman getting handsy. By the state of the flat earlier, I'd say he's handled much worse today alone, but a sharp edge of irritation is lodged under my skin, like a splinter wheedling its way in further with each moment. I can picture Sherlock's delicate white skin beneath the layers of fabric, bruising in the same way the flesh of his hips had taken on the imprint of my fingers as I-

“Colleague,” I cut off my own train of thought to contradict them. I lift my chin slightly and force a nuetral expression. _'Colleague'_ is what Sherlock had called me _before_ when he had introduced me to Donovan at the crime scene. And it does seem as if we are pretending that we are the same as we were _before._

“Right.” Wilkes drops his hold on Sherlock's arm and takes my hand to shake it. I force myself to smile like a normal bloke that isn't visualising how easily I can break at least five of his bones in under twenty seconds.

“Right,” he repeats as he withdraws his hand from my hold and throws a brief glance at Sherlock. There are things I can't read about what he is communicating with that look but there is clearly a question there. He returns his eyes to me while thrusting his tongue into his cheek and ducking his head to scratch at the back of his neck. He clearly wants to ask something or make an inappropriate remark but wisely chooses to leave it. He instead turns to lead us into his office. 

It's a very nice office with an impressive view of London rising up behind Wilkes' large oak desk. Sebastian clasps his hands in front of his chin as he looks Sherlock and I over. We settle side-by-side across from him. He leans back, slouching comfortably in his leather chair. In contrast, I feel myself sitting up straighter, uncomfortable in such obvious affluence. 

I'm surprised when Sherlock begins with something of a compliment; observing that Sebastian is doing well and deducing he has been around the world twice in one month. I consider for a moment what could have given such information away, but can't come up with anything. 

“Right.” Wilkes chuckles lightly. “You’re doing that... _thing._ ” He narrows his eyes and thrusts his tongue into his cheek again as he points at Sherlock. Then he turns his gaze on me. “We were at uni together,” he explains and he has a grin of deep amusement tinged with something ugly. “This guy here had a trick he used to do.” 

“It’s not a trick,” I think I hear Sherlock interject quietly from beside me, but Sebastian continues on speaking to me as if he hasn't heard.

“He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him do it,” I agree and don't add that the moment he did this to me might have been the moment when I found myself well and truly gone on him. 

I know there is a soft grin that's crept onto my face as I consider how spectacular it is that Sherlock mastered his skill when he was still only half-grown. I can almost picture a young, scrappy, Sherlock who'd undoubtedly been so much less reserved and disciplined, more open and unguarded; a softer, tenderer, less refined man beneath this hard shell. I'd only caught fleeting glimpses of that boyish innocence in our time together and I found it irresistible.

“Put the wind up everybody. We hated him,” Sebastian continues.

I sit back a little, blinking my surprise at Sebastian. Perhaps I shouldn't be shocked by this assertion, given how I'd seen the majority of NSY react to Sherlock and that Sherlock himself had told me that people usually tell him to 'piss off’ when he deduces them but there is a particular viciousness in it when contrasted with that younger version of Sherlock I'd just been imagining.

I turn my head to glance over at Sherlock and just catch him turning his face away and looking down. He isn’t quick enough to hide the momentary flicker of intimate pain over his features. I’ve only seen a hint of that expression once before, when he spoke of Mycroft's past betrayals.

“You’d come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you’d been shagging the previous night.” 

“I simply observed,” Sherlock says quietly and when he lifts his eyes his expression is so cold and dead I imagine that I can almost feel the chill rolling off of him, like liquid nitrogen.

I turn my eyes back on Sebastian and his gaze is still fixed on me, sparkling with a kind of cruel amusement. I bristle as I realise this man has somehow been close enough to Sherlock to _really_ hurt him. He might even be an intimate relationship gone sour; an ex-lover talking about how he’d got caught.

“Go on, enlighten me,” Wilkes turns his eyes back on Sherlock, seething a patronising arrogance. “Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world – you’re quite right. How could you tell?” He’s pretending it's all in the spirit of good-natured jest but there is a undercurrent of disdain for Sherlock right beneath the surface. Before Sherlock can respond and demonstrate his amazing skill, Sebastian jumps in and smugly berrates Sherlock with a series of increasingly absurd guesses about what arbitrary trait about himself might have told Sherlock where he's been.

When Wilkes finally leaves space for Sherlock to speak, I hold my breath, ready for all hell to break loose when Sherlock puts him in his place. With any luck it will come to blows and I’ll quench my itch for a good fight with a fist in this man's smug face.

Instead, Sherlock fixes Wilkes with a hollow stare and simply gazes back at him for a long moment. Then he flatly lies by saying that he was chatting with Wilkes’ secretary and she'd told him about the travel. 

I look over at Sherlock, confused that he isn't pouncing at the chance to demonstrate his cleverness and skill. If anyone deserves to be ripped to pieces by his brilliant insights, it is this pompous, self-righteous prick who requested Sherlock's help only to manhandle him and treat him to non-stop attempts at insults, humiliation and degradation. 

Sherlock doesn’t return my gaze. 

Sebastian laughs humorlessly and Sherlock's smile back at him is nothing like a smile. He keeps his eyes fixed on Sebastian and the stiffness of the way he is holding himself and the forced blandness of his expression makes me feel like he is being very deliberate in giving Sebastian nothing to sink his teeth into. He is purposely avoiding that fight I am so eager to plunge into. As much as it is the logical thing to do, it also is irritating as hell. The more time I spend with Sebastian the more I want to see the look on his face when I smash my fist into it. But, Sherlock obviously wants to keep things civil, so I reign myself in and force an expression that doesn't reveal my seething anger as I turn back to Wilkes.

Sebastian relents in whatever he’d been driving at and chuckles, clapping his hands together. He switches gears, becoming more serious. “I’m glad you could make it over. We’ve had a break-in,” he states, getting to his feet. 

I want to be proud that I'd guessed it was a break-in from what few clues Sherlock had offered but there is this lingering feeling of having been gut punched by the conversation so far. 

Sherlock seems different. The set of his shoulders is all wrong, like a heavy weight has been hung around his neck. I only manage to catch his eye for a second as Sebastian leads us across the trading floor to the office of the bank’s former Chairman, Sir William, but there is a worrying undercurrent of sadness in his expression.

“You alright?” I whisper to Sherlock once Sebastian is a few paces ahead. Sherlock just gives me a strange look, as if he thinks it absurd that I even venture to ask the question. I don’t have time to push for an answer, as Sebastian stops in front of the locked door of a large office.

“Sir William’s office – the bank’s former Chairman. The room’s been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night,” he says peering into the glass panels of the office.

“What did they steal?” I ask, following his gaze with my own. 

“Nothing. Just left a little message.” Sebastian holds his security card against the reader by the door to unlock it, then leads the way towards the desk. He steps aside to let Sherlock get a better look. Hanging on the plain white wall behind the large desk is a framed painted portrait of a man in a suit; the late Sir William Shad himself, it appears. On the wall beginning to the left of the portrait and over the man’s eyes someone has sprayed what looks like a graffiti tag in yellow paint. The first part of the tag on the wall looks vaguely like a number 8 but with the top of the number sliced open, and above it is an almost horizontal straight line. Across the eyes of the portrait itself, another almost horizontal straight line has been sprayed. The yellow paint has run trails down the wall and over the painting from that indiscernible design. 

I watch Sebastian watching Sherlock who is intensely focused on the graffiti. My hands ball into fists at my sides as my thoughts stray to dark and sharp-edged; images of Sebastian forcing his way into Sherlock’s space, enveloping his hand with both his own, gripping Sherlock’s arm, digging his fingers in and repeatedly thrusting his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he talked, creating a suggestive bulge. It seemed like... well.. _flirting._

Then there was the Negging - the way Sebastian had casually undermined Sherlock’s usual confidence with insults. I hadn't seen this tactic since a fellow soldier in the army, Murphy, who swore by it as the surefire way to catch the attention of ‘the really hot ass’ by subtly making them feel like rubbish. 

I try to push those thoughts aside as Sebastian takes us through the evidence; showing us the security footage of the office from the previous night. The defacement apparently occurred within a minute gap in the footage. Sebastian then takes us down to the main security desk in the reception area where he points out on a computer the layout of the trading floor and its surrounding offices with alarms on all the entry and exit ways.

“Every door that opens in this bank gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet.”

“That door didn’t open last night,” Sherlock states, staring at the screen. I can't help but notice that he's positioned himself beside Sebastian.

Sebastian doesn't answer, instead he reaches into the breast pocket of his coat and pulls out a cheque. “There’s a hole in our security. Find it and we’ll pay you – five figures. This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there’s a bigger one on its way,” he says offering the cheque to Sherlock. 

I see everything in Sherlock stiffen as he turns his eyes on Sebastian and for a moment I get that tingling forewarning that he might actually throw a punch.

“I don’t need an incentive, Sebastian.” His words are surprisingly bitter. He turns and briskly strides away. I watch him go for a few seconds, shocked. Has Sebastian actually beaten Sherlock down so much that Sherlock believes he shouldn't get paid for solving their little security problem? I decide that I, for one, don't intend to work for this prick just out of the kindness of my heart, especially when those notices sitting on my table back at 221B are screaming for my attention. I turn to Sebastian. 

“He’s, uh, he’s kidding you, obviously.” I hold out my hand for the cheque. “Shall I look after that for him?”

Sebastian hands me the cheque and I thank him. I look down at it and shake my head in disbelief. £5000 is more than enough to straighten out my issues and this is only the advance. Relief washes over me as I tuck it into the inside pocket of my jacket and excuse myself.

“Um… Sherlock?” I jog to catch up with Sherlock who is briskly striding back the way we’d just come. “Should I -” I glance back at Sebastian. “Where do you want me?” I only plan to take what I need from the advance but I am also determined to earn it by being of some help on this case.

“The secretary,” Sherlock snaps in that way that could be a conclusion of a deduction he deems obvious or could be an impatient order.

“Secretary?”

“Yes. Go talk to her.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. He’s made it to the lift and he swipes a card against the security pad and presses the button. I narrow my eyes on the security badge suspiciously - we hadn’t been given a card.

“Sorry, you want me to talk to a secretary?”

“Not just _any_ secretary, John, Sir Williams’ secretary. Find out if he had any enemies. People he’d fired. People he’d failed to promote. Affairs. Jaded lovers. People on the floor that naturally were permitted close enough and may have just needed a little skill to breach the last layer of security and cover their tracks.” he waves the card towards me at this statement and I glimpse Sebastian’s picture on it. “The secretary will know.” 

The lift opens and he steps in, turning back towards me. “Secretaries mettle in everyone’s business. Practically their primary preoccupation.” I can’t be imaging the edge of contempt in that statement as he pins me with a sharp stare. He leans forward and punches the button for his intended floor with more force than necessary and the doors begin to slide closed.

“Wait. Where are you-” The door closes. I step back and look up at the lighted display ticking off the floors as he ascends. It goes all the way back up to the top floor where Sir William’s office is located. Bastard, I quietly curse. I turn around and stomp back to the security desk to get my own card... through _proper_ channels.


	4. Live Prey

My chat with the Chairman's former personal assistant yields no useful information. Grace is a frazzled older lady who was reassigned to another director after the Chairman's death, and is clearly struggling to keep pace with the demands of her new position. 

Though she talks of little else besides how valued and indispensable she _used to be_ and how miserable and unappreciated she is _now_ (and so could be considered to fall squarely into the category of _’disgruntled employee’_ ) I cannot imagine her smuggling a can of yellow spray paint in her Prada bag, nor defacing the portrait of her former boss, who she seems to adore as much as she despises her new one.

When I return to the lobby, it appears that Sherlock has yet to return from his investigation. Determined that he won't have the chance to dash off without me once again, I station myself by the elevator and wait. I naturally fall into a military parade rest; feet shoulder-length apart and hands clasped behind my back. I let my eyes drift over the tide of patrons flowing through the bank; an endless parade of city boys and office workers in expensive suits and skirts - a mind-numbingly boring assortment of muted blues, beige, grays and blacks. They move quickly. Self-absorbed and brimming with focus and determination, their polished shoes and high heels clack sharply on the smooth marble. It doesn’t take Sherlock to identify the plain clothes security guards among them. 

There’s three of them in nondescript slacks, some Marks & Spencer shirts, and much more sensible shoes than all the sharply dressed patrons; good for chasing someone down, should the need arise. When they aren’t making a token effort to look busy, they move from place to place, eyeing everyone with suspicion. 

After a few moments, their distrustful gazes begin to linger on me, an obvious oddity in contrast to the bank’s usual customers. I lift my chin and internally scoff at what I know is going to happen if I simply hold my ground. They're so pent up, pacing like caged tigers, starved for a bit of bloodsport. In short order, they will be dragging me off to some back room for a less-than-friendly chat. Won't take much. Any resistance on my part and it will turn into an all out slugfest. Sebastian will eventually get word, and intervene on my behalf, but it could be a satisfying tangle before then. 

This is _brilliant._

I’ve been itching for a fight for days and this will do me. 

Adrenaline swells and thrums through my veins as I consider each man, estimating their skills as a fighter. Two are likely ex-military by the way they hold themselves. The taller of the army blokes has dark hair, broad shoulders, callused knuckles and a steely gaze. The more I size him up, the more that that familiar, primal bloodthirst sings through my veins at the idea of tangling with him. 

When his eyes come back around to me, I catch and meet his stare with a hard one of my own; a blatant challenge. That’s all it takes. His jaw clenches and his chin tips up as his eyes narrow on me. Then he shares a quick look and a subtle nod with each of his colleagues. They fan out around me in an attempt to close in from all sides. They are moving in slowly and casually; apparently not wanting to make a scene... but I have no such compunction. I plan to start swinging the moment they lay hands on me. 

I shift and settle into a wider stance, stable enough to dodge or throw a punch. I tip my chin down so I can watch the other two in my peripheral... but, Mr. _tall-dark-and-dangerous,_ I stare him square in the eyes, with a grin spreading over my lips. 

He is only two and a half metres away when the doors to the elevator slide open and Sherlock steps out. He seems as though he intends to sweep on past me with his usual indifference, leaving me to follow behind him, but something about me must catch his eye. He stops in front of me, an assessing gaze traveling up and down my body. Then, with narrowed eyes, he turns and darts his gaze around the room, pointedly glaring, as if in reprimand, at each of the three security guards as he picks them out. 

They have paused in their attack, due to Sherlock’s presence, and now try to awkwardly pretend that they hadn’t been about to jump me. 

Sherlock turns back to me and lifts one eyebrow.

“Having fun?” His voice is flat and dispassionate but there is the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Was about to,” I grumble, frustrated that he has, once again, thwarted my efforts to quench my baser needs. I flex my fist open and closed where it is still clasped at the small of my back, willing away the build up of energy in my body that is primed for a fight (that it’s obviously not going to get now).

He rolls his eyes and huffs a sigh full of annoyance that makes him look more like a petulant teenager than the dangerous MI6 agent that I know him to be. However, that switch flips on a dime when he steps closer, locking his gaze on me with eyes that are suddenly as sharp and piercingly intense as a heated iron.

“Later, John.” His voice is low and tenebrous enough that it might well be a threat... or a _promise._

All that adrenaline pounding through my system moments earlier is suddenly right there beneath the surface again, aching to split me open. He looms over me - far too close - and his whole body is tensed to the point that I think he might be quivering with barely restrained action, like the spring of a gun when the trigger is gently squeezed, straining to hold back the hammer until that moment of violent release. 

I stare back at him, not moving a muscle but my expression clearly dares him to act. 

Ten seconds.  
Twenty.

Things are shifting. Heat is flaring, humming through me. His pupils are swelling, opening up to swallow me into their darkness. I'm practically mentally screaming at him, **_'DO IT!'_** Posh bank be damned, if he so much as reaches for me I am taking him to the floor and I'm not sure what I'm going to do after that.

Suddenly, he sucks in a deep breath, whirls around, and strides towards the escalator as if nothing just happened between us. 

“There’s work to be done,” he calls over his shoulder, clearly trusting that I will follow after him. 

I hesitate. My head is naturally tilted to the side, my eyes are narrowed, and my lips pursed, as watch him move away from me and feel that pull. There is a very familiar, dark hunger stirring in my gut. 

Maybe it's knowing who he _really is_ beneath all the trappings, but even here, among the equally posh and bespoke, he stands out. There’s just something about him; arresting... enticing. He is practically gliding as he strides across the marble floor; back straight, and coat swishing around his calves. Contained within the long, lean lines of his body, he emanates a mix of power and elegance, fierceness and finesse - like some clever, wicked demon realised that beauty could be refined to a deadly point. Everyone else simply seems _dull_ in contrast.

In this moment, it is irritatingly clear to me that the dark haired security guard would have been an unsatisfying substitute for who I _really_ want to tangle with.

_Got a taste for him now, Watson. Nothing else will do._

I shake that thought out of my head and jog after him, catching up just as he steps onto the escalator. As I step on behind him and it carries us downward, I glance back to ensure the guards aren't pursuing us. They aren't, of course. I almost want to laugh at the irony that Sherlock (the man who _actually_ stole a badge and breached their security right beneath their noses) lends me enough of the appearance of respectability that they’ve decided to let me be. _If only they knew!_

I swivel my eyes back around to Sherlock and consider him. His mood seems much improved from earlier. He's practically vibrating with energy; apparently high on the challenge and invigorated by the mystery unraveling before him. It's captivating to see him this way after, what I now realise (by witnessing the contrast), must have been a depressive funk hanging over him this last week. He really does feed off of this sort of thing. 

My mind returns to that image burned in my brain of Sebastian disparaging him over his skill. Though all vulnerability had been immediately shielded by a familiar, cold mask of indifference, I can't deny that the flicker of pain in his eyes inspires a fierce, irrational protectiveness in me. I want to counteract the sting of Sebastian's insults and to take the potency out of whatever backhanded, degrading methods of seduction he is trying to use on Sherlock. I lean closer, my mouth just behind his ear and my voice pitched lower.

“Two trips around the world this month,” I remark, “You didn’t ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him.” I infuse my voice with teasing and conspiratorial notes. I want to give him the chance (that Sebastian denied him) to reveal how he'd worked it all out. I can tell he enjoys that bit and, frankly, I do too.

He doesn't respond but, from my position behind him on the escalator, I can tell that he is grinning. There's something almost coy about his expression. He tips his chin down to his chest and I notice that he is breathing heavier; a sudden anticipation and tension threaded through him. 

It’s only then that I realise, with a shock, that I'm flirting with him. Perhaps no one else would typically think of my attempt to get him to share his deductions as a form of flirtation but I know, from what he'd said that first night on the couch (when he had interpreted all my behaviour leading up to that intimate moment), that he takes my enthusiasm for his skill as a territorial display; a way of declaring my interest and staking a claim. It doesn’t matter that that had never been my conscious intention, that is what it is now. It's an established code. Proceeding will be interpreted by him as a clear signal that I'm willing to recommence that twisted courtship dance from our first day together.

On the heels of that first revelation is the insight that he manipulated me into this position. He'd made the first move. The confrontation a moment ago; that irresistible enticement of danger and the challenge of overpowering him, had been a subversive strategy right out of his psychological game of seduction playbook that he'd used with me from the moment we met until the night I'd exploded inside him. He's telegraphing his moves and I’m naturally falling into that familiar battle rhythm. 

“How'd you do it?” I ask with a grin and no hesitation. He’s lain a trap and, once again, I am willingly - eagerly, even - walking into it.

_The Game is on!_

He glances back at me with a smirk and then plunges in with a breathtaking demonstrations of his skill; revealing to me how a glimpse of an incorrect date on Sebastian's new watch had provided all the evidence he needed to deduce what the man had been up to.

Then, as we weave our way back to the lobby, he lays out for me what his investigation of the Chairman's office yielded. His astounding brain has somehow managed to work out that the graffiti was not merely vandalism but rather some kind of message. A code, maybe. He even determined who, among the 300 traders, it was intended for, Edward Van Coon.

As he hails a cab, I'm grinning. I'm practically drunk both with the thrill of his display of mental prowess and all the possibilities awaiting me now that our battle has resumed. A cab pulls up immediately, we climb in, and Sherlock provides the cabbie the address of the flat.

Once we pull out into traffic, I take a moment for the casual intimacy of sitting together in the back of the cab to settle around us before I broach what has really been chafing me since I first saw how Sebastian Wilkes treats Sherlock.

“So, Sebastian…” I say slowly, still looking out the window. “Well off, then?”

“Obviously.” 

I glance over and see Sherlock is on his phone, fingers flying over the screen. “All very apparent once you consider the expense of his shoes and the quality of his tailored suit - not to mention the new watch and the cuff links. He's practically a walking billboard for casual affluence to the point of opulence - which, I suspect, is the point of the whole display.”

I make a sound of agreement but I'm really just trying to hold myself in check and proceed slowly. There is a risk to this conversation. Too eager or interested and he will stonewall me… or, worse yet, begin to suspect how affected I was by that first night. I know that The Game stops if there's any indication that it's _more than_ a game to me - that I'm emotionally compromised.

“Some people go in for that,” I drawl, only looking at him out of the corner of my eyes to gauge his reaction. He merely makes a humming sound, closer to acknowledgement than agreement, his eyes never leaving his phone as he swipes and jabs at it. 

I pause for a moment, rubbing a finger over my lips and looking out the window. Do I really want to press the issue? He’d said that protectiveness can only mean that I believe he’s mine to protect, and I can’t deny that I am feeling irrationally protective of him at the moment... but I don't think he'll appreciate or tolerate that sort of sentiment now. He’s a grown man - a highly capable and dangerous man. Yet, when I recall that predatory grin that spread over Sebastian's face as he grasped Sherlock's arm and forced himself into Sherlock’s space, I can’t deny that it makes me a bit mental. I've got to know if there's anything going on there.

“Decent looking bloke, too?”

Sherlock's head whips up and his eyes are hard and piercing as they focus on me and slice me up with laser precision. I don't know exactly what is behind that stare as he says, “You think so?” It is more statement than question. 

“Well…” My shrug is awkward and I know it, but I plaster on a smile. Between his beady eyes and smug, slimey smile, Wilkes registers somewhere between rat and snake in personal appeal for me, but I don't want to appear as if I'm disparaging Sherlock for his (potential?) interest or for some past relationship with the man. “I suppose... the slick hair, the expensive suit, the sly smile… can be appealing, yeah?” I press my lips together and lift my eyebrows, trying to appear as positive and open as possible to his potential confession of interest in Sebastian, even though my stomach is clenched into a fist.

Sherlock stares at me a long moment, the wheels clearly turning rapidly behind his blank expression. Then he returns his gaze to his phone, and once more begins to scroll purposefully. “Not Urdu or Hebrew.” 

“Right.” I deflate a bit, turning my gaze back to the window. That is as good as a door slammed in my face. He has effectively said he has no intention of revealing anything personal to me. 

It's none of my business. And that's all this is - all it ever has been to him, really; _business._ His job is manipulating people - deceiving them. I am just a colleague, and a bit of entertainment - some live prey to bat around _nothing more._

As I draw back into myself and refocus on the case, the space between us feels cold and thick with tension. We don't speak for the remainder of the ride to Van Coon's flat.


End file.
